


Mingled In Battle

by amyfortuna



Series: 2015 Season of Kink (Card 1) [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blood and Injury, Competence Kink, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Falling In Love, First Time Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, M/M, Medical Kink, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Outdoor Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-16 15:05:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4629801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While fighting together in the Marches, Beleg and Túrin mingle in battle the blood of their wounds. And then they mingle other things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mingled In Battle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/gifts), [Cinaed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinaed/gifts).



> This also fulfils my Season of Kink square for medical kink.

As soon as the last Orc was dead, Túrin wheeled around, taking off the Dragon-helm. 

"Beleg!" he cried out. "Where are you?"

"Just here," Beleg groaned, not far away, and Túrin raced over, setting the helm down and dropping to his knees beside Beleg, who was sporting a long bleeding cut to his right upper arm. "One of the _yrch_ got in a lucky blow," he said, and let out a string of curse words when Túrin gently prodded near the wound, checking to see how large it was and whether it had severed anything important. "Don't do that!" 

"I have to," Túrin said, "you know that. You taught me that."

Beleg growled. "So I did. I don't have to like it, though." He gestured at Túrin's thigh. "You're hurt too." He gave Túrin a fierce grin. "I should by rights have a chance to prod and poke you as well, see how you like it." 

"It's little more than a shallow cut," Túrin said with a shrug. "I'm more concerned about you. Can you move your arm?" 

Beleg did so, and grimaced. 

Túrin frowned. "I think this might need to be stitched up, but we're not in a safe place to do it," he said. "We need to retreat further back under the trees, into the safety of the Girdle. If I remember rightly, there's a stream not far away. We'll need water to cleanse this."

"Very well," Beleg said. He was white with pain and bleeding significantly, but got to his feet. Túrin took a spare shirt out of his pack, and wrapped it around Beleg's arm and shoulder, hoping to stem the bleeding. Once it was secure, he drew Beleg's good arm around his waist, gathering up his pack, Beleg's things, and the Dragon-helm, and together they limped toward the stream. Beleg could feel the wash of power curving over him as they walked, and knew they would be secure inside the Girdle now. 

Near the stream there was a large flat rock, fairly clean on top, and Beleg sank down onto it with a groan of pain, being careful not to jar the arm. Túrin, too, was looking a bit pale, and the bloodstain on his breeches, far from being 'a shallow cut', was growing larger by the minute. 

"You really should tend to that, Túrin," Beleg said. 

"You first," Túrin said, and tightened his lips in a way that Beleg knew meant there was little sense arguing with him. After wetting a cloth in the stream, Túrin sat down beside him, not without a gasp of pain, and removed the shirt, bending to carefully clean the wound. Beleg frowned and gestured at the bloody shirt. 

"At least wrap the 'cut' in that," he said. "Staunch the bleeding. Do it now, or I'll start singing, and I know how much you hate that." 

Túrin glanced up with a smile at the ominous threat. "Anything but that!" he said. "I'll be bleeding from my ears next!" But he obeyed, wrapping the bloodstained cloth firmly around his leg, putting his weight on it to be sure it would stay in place. 

Fumbling in his pack, Túrin pulled out the needle and waxed thread he always carried with him, and strung it through, frowning with concentration, the tip of his tongue poking out as he endeavoured to thread the needle. Beleg leaned back against the rock, holding the damp cloth against his arm firmly, watching Túrin with an expression of fondness and something more on his face. 

Needle threaded, Túrin turned back to him. "This is going to hurt," he said. "I'm sorry." 

"I've had worse," Beleg said. "There's a scar on my hip from an arrow that took weeks to heal. And one from a wild boar on my thigh. And one - ow! -" He gasped as Túrin began to stitch, weaving the needle deftly through the cut, and wasn't able to go on speaking, but clenched his fist hard, closing his eyes. 

The cut was long, but Túrin was quick and efficient, stitching fast while keeping one eye on Beleg's face to be sure that he wasn't in too much pain. Finally tying the thread off, he bent down and bit it through, detaching the needle and the remnants of thread. "It's done," he said, moving one hand to brush against Beleg's face. 

Beleg opened his eyes, blinking rapidly, and moved his hand to cover Túrin's. "Thank you," he said softly. "Now tend to yourself." 

Túrin unwrapped the shirt from his leg, now significantly more bloodstained than it had been when it was only Beleg's blood on it. "We've well and truly mingled our blood, now," Túrin joked as he held up the shirt like a banner for a moment, and then laid it down next to Beleg's arm, gently, as though it were something precious. "And it's not the first time your kin and mine have done so." 

"Beren and Luthien did so somewhat differently," Beleg said with a quick grin. Túrin shot him a sudden hot look, and Beleg caught his breath, helpless against the knowledge in those too-young eyes. The boy was only eighteen; where had he learned to glance like that?

Beleg smiled disarmingly, trying to defuse the tension that had suddenly filled the air. "I'd like to say these words under more pleasant circumstances," he teased, "but get those breeches off." 

Túrin gave him another hot look, and then it was no longer only a joke. "Anything for you, Beleg," he said, and stood, pulling his boots off and setting them aside, then pushing down his breeches, removing them and throwing them aside. "More sewing," he said with a sigh, looking at the rent in the garment mournfully. 

"What about your leg?" Beleg asked, and Túrin sank back down to the ground, stretching it out in front of himself, showing Beleg the cut, which really wasn't that deep. Beleg laid his hand on Túrin's knee, looking at it closely, trying to keep his eyes from wandering. The cut was very high up on his thigh, inches from Túrin's groin, and Beleg could see, underneath the tunic Túrin wore, shadowed glimpses of Túrin's prick, half displayed unselfconsciously, half hidden in the folds of his long shirt. 

"Do you think I need to stitch it?" Túrin said, drawing the still-damp cloth over it, wincing a little. 

"The bleeding's nearly stopped," Beleg said, somewhat distractedly. "You were right, it is fairly shallow, for all it bled. Sometimes wounds do that."

"I was more concerned about you," Túrin said, pressing down on the cut with the cloth. "I should wash this. And the shirt, and my breeches." He sighed. 

"No," Beleg said. "They will keep. You should rest now. Put salve and a bandage on that, then lie down for a while."

"Very well," Túrin said. He reached into his pack again and quickly tended to himself, then lay down next to Beleg on the cool rock, stretching out lazily, his tunic riding up almost to the tops of his thighs, his finely-muscled legs on display. Beleg strained to watch, hoping the tunic would ride up just a little further, then caught himself, and put his head back down, chastising himself for his thoughts. Túrin was little more than a child even according to the standards of the race of Men, and likely saw Beleg as something akin to a parent. 

The silence between them, although comfortable, was nevertheless filled with an odd tension that set Beleg's heart beating quickly. Túrin seemed relaxed, warm against him, but was thoughtful, staring up into the blue sky with eyes that seemed not to see it. The sound of rushing water was all about them, the stream babbling on its way merrily. Birds sang overhead. Beleg closed his eyes and drifted for a little, not sleeping, just resting. He could feel the cut, well-stitched as it was, beginning to knit itself back together. 

Túrin gave a sigh at last and turned onto his side, facing Beleg, near enough that Beleg could feel him pressed all alongside his own body. Beleg blinked a little before opening his eyes. Túrin's head was propped up on his elbow and he was gazing down at Beleg, lips pouting a little, eyes wide and adoring. 

"What is it?" Beleg started to ask but barely got the words out before Túrin bent down and kissed his mouth. Beleg yielded to it, parting his lips, darting his tongue out to press into Túrin's mouth. Túrin, a little startled and surprised, caught on immediately, and with a low noise of happiness, deepened the kiss further, drawing Beleg to himself, careful of the wounded arm. 

When the kiss broke and they looked at each other again, Beleg glanced down the line of Túrin's body where his erection had escaped the tunic he wore and rose proudly to greet him. His heart began to pound very fast, and he could feel his own body reacting inside the breeches he wore. He'd remained more or less indifferent to all of Elvendom for years untold, but one kiss and one sight of this Man's prick - of _Túrin's cock_ \- was almost enough to undo him then and there. 

He was staring like a fool, unable to even look back up at Túrin's face. Finally Túrin made a soft sound, inarticulate and confused, and Beleg managed to recover his composure enough to raise his eyes. 

"I - do you - that is - can we?" Túrin said eloquently. 

"Kiss me again," Beleg said. Túrin complied instantly. Beleg watched his eyes shut, long lashes sweeping down over his face, a tender smile gracing his lips as he moved toward Beleg. When their lips met, Beleg put his good arm around Túrin's neck and dragged him down closer, nearly on top of himself, and they kissed lingeringly, desperately, for long moments. Beleg could feel Túrin pressing against his hip, and broke the kiss when he realised that if he did not remove his breeches soon, he was going to come in them, and that would be just embarrassing. 

Túrin moved back a little, breathing shakily, and Beleg took the opportunity to yank his breeches down, not caring much about how it must look, the both of them half-dressed, covered in blood, bruises, and bandages, cocks out, chests heaving as they looked at each other. He drew Túrin's hand to his prick and Túrin gave him a quick lustful glance, then rose to his knees, wincing a little, and bent over Beleg, taking his cock into his mouth. 

Wet heat engulfed him and Beleg bit back a cry that would have scared all the birds from the trees. Túrin was clearly new to this but made up for in enthusiasm what he lacked in skill - just as he always did with anything he truly desired. He sucked carefully at the head of Beleg's cock, then took him deeper, slowly, rocking back and forth onto him, one hand at the base of his prick, the other creeping slowly toward his own cock. 

"Don't touch yourself," Beleg said with a gasp. "I want to make you - !" He had to break off with a gasp as Túrin nodded and took him deeper, tongue working against the head of his cock. Túrin hadn't quite mastered the art of covering his teeth and now and again scraped against him but the slight pain only added to the intensity of the sensation. 

Beleg rose up on an elbow, the better to watch Túrin suck him, the way his eyes were closed in concentration, the stretch of his mouth around Beleg's cock, obscene and beautiful, the low noises he was making that vibrated all through Beleg, his hair that was falling down over his shoulders to tickle Beleg's thighs. He stared greedily, as if this would never happen again and he would have to have this memory for the rest of time itself. 

Túrin glanced up at him, opening his eyes, and for a breathless moment they held each other's gaze. Everything around them seemed utterly still and far away. Beleg reached out - it was his injured arm but he did not care - and brushed the hair back from where it was falling in Túrin's face, very tenderly. Túrin hummed against him, took him deeper, and then swallowed around him. 

His head dropping back helplessly, exposing his throat, Beleg came, unable to resist thrusting a little deeper into Túrin's throat. Túrin made a slightly choked noise but took him down, kept him steady, until Beleg had fallen limply back onto the rock, overwhelmed. Heaving in great gasps of air, Túrin lifted his head, and collapsed down next to Beleg, making a desperate needy noise. 

Beleg, even in the aftershocks of orgasm, drew Túrin close, and laid a hand on his cock, stroking deliberately and firmly, not teasing or drawing it out. Túrin moaned sweetly, still breathing hard, and curled against Beleg, laying kisses to his throat, biting briefly at the exposed skin. Beleg finally turned his mouth toward Túrin and kissed him hard, thrusting his tongue in and out of Túrin's mouth in much the same rhythm as the movement of his hand up and down Túrin's cock. 

Túrin's fingers clutched at Beleg's shirt helplessly, head falling back, and Beleg could feel him tense and shudder with impending orgasm, tearing his mouth away to breathe. Beleg stroked him hard, with much the same grip that he himself preferred, and Túrin seemed to love it, rocking up into his hand, staring at him with heavy-lidded eyes, breathing harshly. 

With a final gasp, Túrin came, his seed shooting between Beleg's fingers to land half on his thigh and half on the rock. Beleg stroked him through it, until Túrin made a slight noise that sounded a little more like pain than pleasure. Curious, he let go of Túrin's prick, dipped his fingers into the mess on Túrin's thigh, and brought them to his own mouth, tasting the salty bitterness of him, somewhat different from his own taste but all the more enticing for that. 

Túrin was slumped against him, eyes closed, breathing still a little ragged, and Beleg laid a kiss against his lips, brief and sweet. 

"Túrin," he whispered, not really expecting a reply. "Oh Túrin, my Túrin." It was as though all the warmth and affection he had felt for the boy as long as he'd known him had been a seed which had sprung up and blossomed without warning into love for the man who lay beside him. The dearly-beloved features - the curve of his lips, the shape of his nose, the long lashes which framed serious grey eyes, the dark eyebrows, the wide forehead, the dark locks of hair that lay heavy on his head - all of those were now infinitely precious, worth more than all the gold and jewels in Thingol's treasuries, worth more even than the Silmaril itself to him. 

Túrin opened his eyes with a smile that lit him up so brightly Beleg could hardly bear to look. "Beleg," he answered softly, and drew him close. Nothing more needed to be said. They curled up around each other and lay warm and happy in the mid-afternoon sun, until the lengthening shadows spilled over them and the sun began to set.


End file.
